


Utterly, irrefutably, brilliantly.

by williamastankova



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Case Fic, It's For a Case, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Requited Love, Requited Unrequited Love, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a Mess, it's complex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 15:04:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16098113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamastankova/pseuds/williamastankova
Summary: Sherlock wears lipstick for an experiment. Around the same time, John acts on some things. Sherlock becomes confused.ELSE; the kisses Sherlock could (and could not) understand





	Utterly, irrefutably, brilliantly.

Really, Sherlock had only done it for an experiment. He figured it'd help him with the current case, and he could simultaneously further his understanding of the male sex. Well, homosexual males primarily, but that wasn't necessarily the only audience. You see, he'd gotten the idea a while back, but now it was relevant to something other than his personal interest, he'd actually gone out and picked up a lipstick or two for himself. He did momentarily consider asking Mrs Hudson for one (or sneaking it - it wasn't like she'd notice, or miss it anyway), but then decided against it on the sole basis of sanitation. One he got in a shade called, 'Scandal', which was the most vibrant shade of red he thought he'd ever seen, and the other was a more neutral colour, called, 'Pretty in Pink'. If nothing else, he'd never understand how they came up with such silly titles for lipsticks, but that wasn't the concern of his study. At least not yet.

The first day, he'd pulled himself away from his computer, having stumbled across a make-up ad that reminded him of his purchases, and stood in the mirror of the living room. Carefully, he traced the outline of his lips, trying his best not to smudge it like Mrs Turner did. Once he thought he'd finished, he retracted the stick and began studying his lips. Yes, this was good. He understood why people liked wearing it now. The pop it brought to his otherwise ivory complexion was completely welcome. He'd never been a self-conscious person before, seeing as he'd tuned himself out of caring what people thought or said about him long ago, but now he saw he looked... good. A bit good, anyway. Then again, he'd only just applied it, and when he resumed his tea, he found just why it was so difficult to maintain. The bloodstain on his mug was enough proof that this experiment would be as any other, and that he should refrain from becoming too cocky, too quickly.

After a quick re-application, he sat back down at his laptop, returning to his work, almost forgetting he'd put it on at all... that was, until John came home from work, about an hour later.

"Sherlock," he began, as he ascended the stairs to their flat, "I checked this morning, and realised we'd run out of milk. I've bought some more, but I meant to have a word with you about-"

As he pushed open the door and looked around for his flatmate, John's mouth fell open in astonishment. Sherlock looked idly up from his screen, eyes narrowing at John's bewilderment.  
"Yes?" he asked, genuinely inquisitive.

"You, uh," John stumbled over his own, overly simplified word choice. "You've got something... on your lip."

Sherlock suddenly remembered, and realised he hadn't pre-warned John of his test. "Ah, yes. Lipstick, John. It's an experiment."

John nodded once, slowly, "An experiment. Right." He looked around Sherlock's face a little quickly, but his eyes came to rest once more on his lips. "What experiment exactly?"

Sherlock explained to him how it related to their case, but left out the part about him feeling really very nice with it on. He figured that just wasn't something John needed to know about. Once he'd finished, however, John looked no less absent, and his eyes still hadn't moved.

"Right." He managed, before he went into the kitchen to unload the bags, grumbling something incoherent under his breath. Well, Sherlock didn't really know what he was saying, but he found he didn't really have the interest to try and decipher it, either. He watched as John finished loading the fridge, then shut it a little harder than necessary, shook his head, just about threw the newly emptied bags into the corner and darted upstairs.

 _Well,_  Sherlock thought, _that was strange._

**

Sherlock's been recording results every time he has the chance to. Just in the first three days of wearing the lipstick (switching between colours, naturally), he'd caught five separate men and a woman staring at him, a spark of lust in their eyes. No matter where he went, whether he'd caught a cab or boarded the underground, or was just walking down the street, somebody seemed to look at him. He had to admit: if he was looking for anything with any of them, he'd be rather flattered. Unfortunately for them, he wasn't.

They'd just finished up at NSY, with Sherlock telling Lestrade what sort of person he should be looking out for (honestly, it was like he couldn't tell the lipstick marks on the victim's body were a man's), and now they were in a taxi, sitting and waiting patiently until they arrived home. In the mean time, Sherlock pulled out a mirror he'd learned it was handy to keep in his coat, and coated his lips in the red lipstick. With all of his rushing about, looking for a murderer, he'd forgotten to keep his make-up in check.

Once he was done, he closed the lipstick and slipped the hand mirror back into his pocket, revealing John looking at him from behind it. The expression John wore was a difficult one: he wasn't  _scared_ , but his hands were minorly trembling. He wasn't _angry_ , but there were flames behind his eyes, heat erupting from him. He wasn't _lost_ , but his mouth quivered, as though he were about to ask a question. Instead of doing anything, though, he left his eyes on Sherlock, more specifically his mouth, and let Sherlock keep wondering.

Eventually, after what seemed like an eon, the cab stopped, and the cabbie announced the total. Sherlock thrust the money into the driver's hands, then quickly exited the car and deep down wished they'd never speak of John's - if he wasn't being deluded, which he possibly was, even though he'd been giving Sherlock the same look those other five people had - attracted staring. Of course, the gods were never so kind as to give Sherlock Holmes a day off, and so of course it happened that he dropped his keys whilst fumbling with the lock, giving John enough time to pipe up.  
"Sherlock, wait."

As he kneeled, Sherlock squeezed his eyes tightly shut, willing the world to disappear. His stomach was fluttering like crazy, and it made him feel ill. Not even the type of silly ill Molly looked to be in the presence of attractive company, but the type that made him well and truly convinced he was going to puke all over John when he stood up. Regardless of this feeling, he did so anyway, turning to look at the shorter man as he did so.  
"John," he said, trying to keep his cool, "What is it?"

It was strange how it worked. Humans naturally had instincts, but Sherlock didn't think they had psychic abilities - at least, he didn't recall learning that in his school days. Even so, his stomach had been trying to convey a message, though he didn't quite know what in the moment, he understood soon after, because it took John less than a minute to catch up to him, focus his eyes on Sherlock, then get a firm grasp on his scarf and tug him down, kissing him with the heat of a hundred suns.   
_Oh,_ was all Sherlock could think, _that_.

It wasn't bad. Not at all - no, John was a good kisser, in fact, as far as Sherlock's limited experience led him to believe. Of course, that was only down to the one girl he'd kissed (never again, never) and two men, granted one of those was wearing braces at the time. The other man had been renowned as the best in the whole of the university, and something primitive in Sherlock understood precisely why when their lips met. With this in mind, Sherlock thought himself perfectly capable of concluding John knew what he was doing, but even still... it was wrong.

The primary thought on his brain was a basic question: _why?_  Why now, why him, why? After everything, after Sherlock's fake death, after John married Mary, after Rosie, after Mary's death, why? If it was ever going to happen, Sherlock had always thought it would have been in their first year or so, but it didn't. Since then, he'd given up on it, figuring John thought they were better as friends, and in face maybe John just didn't like men like that at all, despite his energy, and what those silly articles said when Sherlock mistakenly read them. It just didn't make any sense, but it had to. Everything needed to make sense in Sherlock's brain, because everything had a completely logical reason behind it, and that was just how things were.

He rationalised it in his brain. There were a few possibilities:

One; John really did like Sherlock, but had decided to wait until that exact moment to reveal his lust, or whatever it was. Except, this wasn't logical to him, because John was the bravest man he knew, and he didn't fear rejection. He was also smart (not Holmes smart, but that would have made him a freak also, which he wasn't) and would have noticed Sherlock's obvious want in the initial stages of their relationship. No, that wasn't what it was.

Two; John was secretly intoxicated. It was more possible, but then Sherlock had been with John all day, and he hadn't seen him dip off into any bar, nor did he see him pack or sip from a flask at any point. He thought this unlikely, but still didn't rule it out entirely.

Then, there was three. Three triggered something inside of Sherlock he'd never felt before.

Three; John still missed Mary. Well, that much was given, because he loved her - she was the mother of his only child, after all - and he'd married her. Regardless of everything, she was his wife, and she was gone, and even Sherlock knew that John would miss her for the rest of his life. But this linked to Sherlock because, well, of his experiment. Mary was a woman - a feminine woman, who enjoyed make-up with its benefits and creative liberty. She'd worn lipstick before, and Sherlock had made note of how it had affected John. His eyes dilated when he looked at her (which was seldom, but only because he could hardly look away from her), and his pulse quickened. His breathing hitched when she took his hand, like he was a teenager still, and she was his first girlfriend. Yes, this was the most likely scenario. John missed Mary, Mary wore lipstick, so when Sherlock wore lipstick it reminded John of Mary, so John kissed Sherlock, but because he missed kissing Mary, not because he wanted to kiss Sherlock.

His stomach plummeted, resigning. Normally, when he'd solved something, he felt elated. At the very least, if it was a simple case - a three, maybe - he felt nothing. But now, he felt something, but he didn't feel good. He felt the opposite of good, but when John pulled away from him and looked at him, he feigned nonchalance, opening the door like nothing had happened, and followed John inside. Once they were up the stairs, however, he refused to look him in the eye, making his way rapidly across the room and entering his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

He took a seat on his bed, feeling a burning from within that he couldn't identify, and picked up his mirror once more. Careful not to look himself in the eye, he looked at his mouth, now smudged and sad, bleeding and spluttering, but completely, dead-on-the-operating-table flat. He reached for a make-up wipe he'd gotten at the same time as the lipsticks, and removed the remainder of the mess, then he fell on his side and fell asleep for the first time ever, forgetting about the case for the night.

**

The next morning, Sherlock got up by himself, but then realised there was a slight clattering coming from outside the door. Figuring who it was, Sherlock took his time undressing from his 'yesterday-clothing', then getting into his fresh clothing. He rose, stood before his full-length mirror, then reached over to the side to pick up his beige lipstick. That'd do for today. As much as he didn't want to upset John, his experiment was still ongoing, and could prove useful to the current case and future ones, so he didn't want to spoil that. Once he was ready, he inhaled deeply, then let it out, promising himself he'd soldier on, then exited his room. Unsurprisingly, he found John in their kitchen, shuffling away, making breakfast.

He turned around at the sound of Sherlock emerging, eyes open wide.  
"Sherlock," he said his name a little breathlessly, like he was scared to see him. "I wasn't expecting you to be up yet. I was just making breakfast."

He motioned to the tray with a plate and a cup of tea on it. Sherlock nodded, but didn't say anything more. He wasn't sure what he trusted least: his eyes, or his tongue. He took his seat before his laptop, logging on, and typing then untyping a hundred random words. It was better than waving his white flag, at least.

John respected the silence his flatmate opted for, and resumed his cooking. Once everything was done, he brought it over to Sherlock, putting it next to him, not offended to not hear a 'thank you', since they were so rare anyway. John picked up the paper and sat in his armchair, blowing on his tea and skimming the headlines.

Sherlock had never felt so defeated in his entire life. What was he meant to do? What had he been expected to do? Pretend he was okay with John using him to pretend he was his deceased wife back from the dead? Sherlock had only wanted to discover how people treated those with artificially highlighted features. None of this was supposed to happen, and yet here they were. Sherlock, faking business, and John, carelessly flipping through the paper like he hadn't had Sherlock's lips trapped beneath his just hours prior. This was insane, and Sherlock was being driven to insanity.

To Sherlock's utmost joy and dismay, John did speak, but he didn't say what he wanted him to.  
"Sherlock, are we going to talk about this?"

Sherlock shrugged, eyes unmoving, "Talk about what?"

From the corner of his eye, he saw John do a motion with his rolled up paper, pointing to the two of them. "This, Sherlock!" He realised he'd raised his voice which was, apparently, not what he wanted, so he brought it back down again. "Can I at least ask you something?"

"Sure. Go ahead." Sherlock replied coolly.

John breathed in through his nose, holding the air there for a short while as he prepared his question. "What did you honestly think of last night?"

Okay, so maybe Sherlock was going to drag the clueless act on a little too long. "What about it?"

John's patience appeared to be running out. Not in anger, but in pure frustration. "You know what I mean, Sherlock. How did you feel when I kissed you? Did it make you uncomfortable?"

Sherlock finally brought his eyes to meet John's across the space between them. He'd never felt so far away. Still, Sherlock ensured his face remained emotionless, and said, "It was fine."

John paused for a moment, registering everything that could have meant, and then decided it was enough. He nodded, smiling a little at Sherlock, then readjusted his position, looking back at his paper, not uttering another word. Sherlock had nothing else to say, anyway. Nothing worth three dictionaries.

**

Sherlock's experiment has been going well. For as long as they're out, he seems to get attention from all angles, which was perfect for his data document, but now he's solved the case (and, as always, his first suspicious was right), he hasn't really left the flat very much at all, which means his records are coming up blank. For a scientific mind, this was a screeching red alarm, which is why he's here now, wandering aimlessly around London, boarding random trains and getting off in new locations. Sure, he might have to find his way back later, but he's sure he'll manage. He's a man, after all, and it helps some that John is right by his side, albeit a little irked.  
"Sherlock, I really don't understand why you dragged me out here."

John has been avoiding looking at Sherlock's lips since the incident, about a week ago now. Even if Sherlock says the kiss was 'fine', that didn't mean John had free reign to stare nowhere else but his crimson mouth, so he looks everywhere else to ensure Sherlock doesn't feel obligated to do anything. He doesn't even really know what that entails, but he'd rather not find out.

Sherlock pushes him down a side-street, just off of the bustling main road, but no less full. People turn to look at him almost instantly.  
"Because, John," he started his explanation, then finished rather unhelpfully, "I need you here."  
"What for, exactly?"

Sherlock didn't disclose any information. He didn't have any to give anyway, so he practically dragged John into a nearby coffee shop and to the till, then ordered for him and picked their seat. John obliged, taking his seat across from Sherlock, still looking grumpy.  
"Oh, do cheer up, John," Sherlock insisted, "I thought it'd be nice for us to get out of the flat for a while is all. Thought you'd like that idea, seeing as you're always trying to get 'fresh air'."

The tone of his voice as he punctuated the final two words sent a shrill up John's spine. He leaned forward a little, coming to rest with his hands on the table, and hissed, "Yes, I mean to meet up with people, not to drag me out at six in the morning on a Saturday, not explaining where we're going, and expecting me to be merry and bright."

In response, Sherlock only rolled his eyes, and then motioned for John to take a drink of his coffee. In a juvenile act of rebellion, John raised a finger and pushed the cup away from him, then announced he'd be in the bathroom if he was actually, genuinely needed. Sherlock nodded, then drank from his cup again. He could apologise to John later if it really meant so much to him, but for now he'd look around the shop and see whose eyes he could catch.

On a table to his left, he saw a bored gentleman sifting through his phone. He was a little older than Sherlock, he presumed, but he wasn't exactly _unattractive_. Just a little... disinteresting? Either way, he wasn't looking, which was all Sherlock was really looking for. Just behind him, a petite female sat, her hands resting on her interlaced fingers, elbows on the tabletop. Her eyes stared off, wistful, thinking about something Sherlock could probably deduce if he felt so inclined, but he didn't. Once again, she wasn't looking at him, and that was all he was after. He turned his head to the right, in search of another occupied table, when-

"Hello," a soft, yet firm voice came from his right. Sherlock looked up to find a man, perhaps a little younger than himself, about a meter away from him, nervously shifting on his feet, trying to stuff his phone back into his pocket whilst keeping ahold of a small slip of paper in his hand. "My name's Lewis."

Sherlock analysed Lewis and narrowed his eyes, but still politely replied, "Hello, Lewis."  
Lewis's eyes lit up at hearing Sherlock's deep voice repeat his name. "I- I saw you come in, and thought you were-" he didn't finish that sentence, but instead began another. "I normally don't do this, but I thought, 'what the hell', and here I am!"

The man reminded him of Molly, but male. In fact, he was precisely like her, because when he dropped the paper on the table, Sherlock saw his number written down, just above a neatly written, 'Lewis x'. Endearing, and obviously what Sherlock was looking for for his experiment, but admittedly slightly awkward. Sherlock sat up straight, forcing the kindest smile he could muster, then spoke.  
"Thank you, Lewis," he said, "My name is-"

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock was briefly confused, thinking Lewis had just guessed his name out of the blue, which was near enough impossible. But no, John had returned from the bathroom, and seemed to believe Sherlock was in immediate danger, or needed some form of assistance, as he crossed the shop at a pace quicker than his usual and kept his eyes on Lewis the whole time. Lewis, a little stunned but still starstruck (Sherlock-struck), saw John coming over, then promptly excused himself, flashing Sherlock a smile, teeth gleaming and gums healthy. He quickly hopped back to his table, picked up his coat and bag and left, turning around only once more to look back at Sherlock, pupils still large and heart presumably pulsating. Now that was over, Sherlock could reach for his phone and record the entire occurrence, ready to copy up later.

John took his seat, almost knocking it over with the force with which he did so, and grabbed the slip of paper set before Sherlock. He obviously recognised what it was, and looked back up at Sherlock.  
"What's this?" He asked first, almost simultaneously with, "What are you doing?"  
Sherlock suddenly found himself unusually giddy, and decided to make a rare joke. "Adding his number to my phone."  
"Are you _crazy?_ " John sounded actually convinced. "Did you even check if the paper was anthrax-ridden before touching it?"

Sherlock put on his best 'what you said just offended me' face, tearing his eyes up from his phone screen, and turned it off.   
"Believe it or not, John, people can find me attractive."  
John rolled his eyes, "That's not what I meant."  
"Hmm." Sherlock was rather impressed with the lack of jest present in his hum, and was even more proud when he studied John and saw he had fooled him. That was the end of that conversation.

Sherlock silently finished his drink, feeling John's eyes on him half of the time, and then once more delved into his pocket and brought out his mirror and lipstick in one. Deftly, he began touching it up, all the while thinking about how he was getting really rather good at doing so. He might even consider wearing it once the study was complete, on special occasions. He rather enjoyed how it made him look, how it made other people look at him, and how it-  
"Sherlock."

John had called him again, so he set down his arms on the table, not letting go of his tools, expecting John to engage him in some brief conversation or simple statement. He even expected John to give him one of those stupid looks he loved so much, the ones he did when Sherlock said something a bit not good, so he knew he was unhappy with him. What Sherlock didn't expect was for John to lean over the table, ignoring the digging sensation in his ribs, and kiss him.   
_Ah,_  Sherlock's mind did flips again, and then landed on its head as it arrived at the same conclusion it had last time.

Still, something must have been different, because he instinctively dropped the mirror and tube to the table, not really taking note of where they went, nor if the cylindrical shape of the lipstick meant it'd go rolling off onto the floor. With his newly freed hands, he froze momentarily, and then cupped John's scruffy face and leaned into the kiss, making sure he wasn't getting _too_  into it, because a) they were in public, and he knew how bad it could be to watch and hear a shameless couple smooching, and b) because John was only kissing him because he longed for Mary, and Sherlock shouldn't take advantage of that. When John reached around to grasp at the smaller curls at the nape of his neck, Sherlock knew it was time to withdraw. The borderline apologetic look in John's eyes sent a pang through Sherlock, though there was no doubt in his mind it was the right thing to do.

"Right," Sherlock said, before the conversation could be steered anywhere else. "Let's head back then, shall we?"  
John snapped out of his trance, then raised his cup, "I haven't even finished yet."  
"Walk and drink, John," Sherlock insisted, standing with a loud noise of protest from his chair, "We have work to do."

With his large pacing and the head-start he had on John, he barely heard the faint, exasperated, 'What work?' from behind him before he was out in the chilly air, his coat being his final platonic ally.

**

Sherlock's still groggy. In recent weeks, he's been sleeping more than he ever has (more than anybody should, in his opinion), but it's apparently reasonable to John, because there's been no frantic knocking at his door, nor has the door frame been removed entirely, so Sherlock thinks he's okay for now. Wrapped up in a cocoon made of silk (okay, it's his bedsheet. He's apparently a creative in the mornings, which he didn't know before), he rises gently, almost too slowly because he remembers getting terrible headaches from sitting up to fast while still sleepy, and locates himself, before getting to his feet and shuffling to his door. Timidly, he pulled on the door handle, which thankfully gave way easily enough, and allowed him to slip out near enough soundlessly, and just in time to feel his stomach rumble. Seriously, what was going on with him recently?

Reluctantly (and wanting desperately to record in yesterday's happening, where Donovan - bloody Sally herself - couldn't stop looking at Sherlock's mouth. That was something he'd hold above her for a long time), Sherlock poured himself a shallow bowl of cereal, then added the milk, maneuvering strategically so he didn't drop his sheet, only noting in the back of his brain the faint sound of creaking floorboards and then stairs from upstairs, indicating John had arisen, too. He remained stood over the counter, trying to figure out the optimum speed at which he would finish his cereal in the least amount of time, without throwing up immediately after - that would surely only waste more time, seeing as John would be there any minute, and he had never failed to mother Sherlock after he had vomited. It was endearing, but annoying.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. As Sherlock's thoughts ceased and his spooning became more daring, John came in through the door and found him. Sherlock was faced away, so he missed the warmness spread across John's face, and his lips crack into a smile as he made his way over to Sherlock. The taller man, not knowing where John was, finished and turned around, expecting John to be busying himself with something menial, only to find him stood right before him, looking glad.   
"Good morning, John." He said pleasantly, setting his bowl in the sink and turning back, expecting John to move out of the way to let him past.

John's arms reached for him, hands splaying on one side of his face and the back of his neck, and he tugged. Not harshly, but firmly, so Sherlock took the hint instinctively and bent down to John's eye level. There, he was admittedly a little shocked to be able to meet John's eye, rather than to watch him watch his mouth intently. With a soft swipe across Sherlock's cheek, John closed his eyes and happily planted one on Sherlock, who was no less surprised than he had been the very first time, and in this state he forgot all reason and teetered forward, coming to rest with his hands on either side of John, on the counter top. He absentmindedly closed his eyes, letting himself fall into the abyss that was kissing John, forgetting all else in the world. John tasted minty, presumably because he had an odd habit of brushing his teeth _before_  breakfast, but even Sherlock wasn't one to comment on that now. Instead, he revelled in the freshness, and only came jolting back to reality when John's cold hand miraculously landed on his tailbone, which was impossible because his hand was out of his blanket, and Sherlock was holding onto it to make sure it didn't-

Come down.  
Yes, okay, that made sense now. Sherlock opened his eyes and split their lips, unable to miss the near-enough 'pop' it made, and he felt his face flush from his collar to the tips of his ear, right into the dips of his hairline. Well, okay, yes, that was awkward. Sherlock, in his haze, had completely forgotten that he was naked without his sheet, which was only held up with his hands, which had fallen when he had, when John kissed him. Was he overthinking it? It wasn't as though John seemed to mind. Actually, come to think of it, John had opened his eyes, and was once again looking Sherlock in the eye, one of his hands still on the side of his face. Sherlock's gaze shifted from one of John's sapphire blue irises to the other, feeling the heat of the other man's pupils beating into him. Was this awkward? Should it have been?

"Good morning, Sherlock."

That was it. All John had to say, and really, it wasn't a lot, except it was. Because that was precisely what got Sherlock's brain whirring. As he watched John wander off to complete his routine tasks, he couldn't stop his mind from going into overdrive: John had said his name. John had touched his back. John had not leapt away upon realising Sherlock was naked. John had kissed him.

John had kissed him.  
 _Him_.

 _That_  was the breakthrough. It was then that Sherlock recalled the previous night: they had arrived home, and he had felt tired. He had told John so, and after receiving a minorly perplexed look, he went off to slumber, but not before he removed his lipstick. He had read articles online in preparation for the experiment, which told him that sleeping in his make-up would be disastrous, especially with the white sheets he had on his bed currently. So, he'd removed it. Yes, he'd removed it. Just to test his hypothesis, he touched his lips, looked at his fingertips, and thought, _yes, I definitely removed it_. Which meant...

**

Sherlock often did this. He stared at John for a wide variety of different reasons, most of which experimental, and some for personal reasons. Now, however, it was completely against his will. After all, where was he supposed to look, after such a revelation? What was he expected to do with himself now? What did it all mean? Most of all, Sherlock disliked how now, it meant he had to pause or completely dismiss his experiment, because there was a new ongoing one. He had to find out just why John had kissed him, without the lipstick. Sherlock most definitely didn't _look_  like Mary. She was smaller, more compact, more curvy, more womanly, whereas he was tall and broad, and undeniably masculine. Even this raised about a hundred questions on its own: why, as it was undeniable that Sherlock was a male, did John then reach around and make contact with his skin? His male, masculine, manly skin? Sherlock didn't think he knew anything anymore. He suppressed a sigh, figuring that would only raise suspicion on John's part.

John had taken to watching the telly. Some programme about something or other, that Sherlock wouldn't partake in because it would never, ever help him with anything important. Well, maybe that wasn't true, because right now it was helping him stare helplessly at John, trying to read his mind - trying to do something. Maybe that was its purpose?

All of a sudden, John shut off the telly, and turned to look at Sherlock, much too fast for the latter to pretend to be doing something other than creepily observe his housemate. Damn.  
"Sherlock," John began, voice stern, but still with its hint of kind intentions, "Why are you staring at me?"

Sherlock gulped involuntarily. He'd never sweated under pressure in his life before, but apparently today was a day for all sorts of firsts for him. He couldn't even focus enough to lie.  
"I don't know."

John seemed to see Sherlock's sincerity, and though it wasn't very helpful at all, something like pity washed over him, and he put down the telly remote, standing and leaning against the chair, closer to where Sherlock sat.   
"What's been up with you lately?" He asked, voice soft and calming, "You're not... you."

"No," he admitted, frankly, "no, John, I'm afraid you're quite right. Unfortunately, I can't help you much with the why part of that predicament, because I'm afraid I don't quite know myself."  
He feared he looked sheepish, yet he couldn't help it.

"Well, maybe I can help." He crossed his arms loosely, "It started when I first kissed you. Does it have something to do with that?"

Sherlock remained silent, which John took as his answer.

"Christ, Sherlock," he said, voice closer to a whisper than before, "You should have told me. I'd have stopped, if you'd have said. I didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

"No, John," Sherlock had to interject, because now John was starting to spiral out of control, and the two of them couldn't do that, because then 221b would become the loony bin, if it wasn't already. "It isn't that. Really. I promise, but the real reason is worse. Much worse, because I know why you really kissed me. But I don't want you to feel bad about anything, so we're better off not talking about it."

John looked up from the carpet, and quirked his eyebrow. " _Why I really kissed you_?" He repeated. "What do you mean by that?"

Sherlock sighed. If John insisted on making things difficult for them, so be it. Honesty had to be the only policy left, now. "You kissed me because I was wearing lipstick. You miss Mary. Mary was a woman, and no less a woman who enjoyed embracing and flaunting her femininity. She wore lipstick, so when I wore lipstick, it reminded you of her; à la you kissed me, because you can't kiss her."

John looked at him, studying his features for a moment, then burst out laughing. Least of all, this was what Sherlock didn't expect.

"I'm- I'm not sure I understand." He admitted, trying not to wince as he did so. "John?"

"Sherlock Holmes, for a genius, you can't half be an idiot."

Sherlock felt himself flush bright red for the second time that day. Was John playing with him? No, not John. Not his John. Never him.

"I didn't kiss you because you reminded me of Mary, you berk," John explained slowly, in a way Sherlock would have detested had he not been so wildly embarrassed. "I kissed you because I finally worked up enough bloody courage to admit my feelings for you, after everything. Oh, and... I don't mind the lipstick. It suits you." He smirked flirtily, in a similar manner to how the lady on the tube had the other day, but that hadn't made him feel anything. This, however, this made him feel _everything_.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Once more. Then he managed, "So, in fact, you mean..." before his brain sparked and shut down. _Business closed._

"Yes."

"You wanted to kiss me because..."

"Yes."

"You want me?"

John's smile was wide as he looked at Sherlock, finally catching on. "Yes."

"And you want to kiss me."

"That I do," John nodded, then stood up, taking a step closer, making Sherlock have to look up at him. "But as opposed to going through everything I want to do to you, I think it's easier to just say I fancy you."

Despite the shrieking brain he had after hearing John's confession that _he wanted him, and for more than just kissing_ , Sherlock inexplicably felt the need to defensively scoff, and retort, "Fancy. Such a childish word."

Luckily, John understood, and laughed breathily in response. "Fine, then. Let me retry, if you'd be so kind," he pretended to be in a drama performance, wiping his face of emotion, void to begin with, then overly expressive, full of need and want and fear and _everything_  Sherlock had felt since their first kiss, "William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I am utterly, irrefutably, brilliantly in love with you. If you'll so kindly take me-"

Sherlock's icy facade broke, and he cracked up. His laughter halted John, who looked up at him, smile-creased eyes displaying his content. "I accept, John Watson. And, for what it's worth, I love you too."

John flooded with heat - not embarrassment, but love - and he took the final step to Sherlock, then bent down and lay his lips sweetly onto the other man's. Unlike their previous kisses, it didn't feel strained, nor solely passionate, nor like Sherlock had to lie to himself to enjoy it. No, this time around, it was completely perfect. Utterly iconic, irrefutably loving, brilliantly beautiful. Utterly, irrefutably, brilliantly.


End file.
